


A Typical Eulogy

by moagidugigo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Captivity, F/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25785277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moagidugigo/pseuds/moagidugigo
Summary: A run-in with Granger has him wondering. Something is off, and he's about to find out why.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25





	1. Incoming (1/3)

1

Theodore Nott had long made the black list at Black & Co., and had it not been for the Tracker, and the years of friendship―if you could call it that―Draco had had with the man, the fifty thousand Galleon loan would have been beyond him. Nott had looked harried, even slightly mad, muttering under his breath, his eyes frantically darting over his shoulder like a panicked animal. He had grabbed onto Draco's arm with clammy hands, pleaded through gritted teeth and agreed to put the Tracker on his eyes. His payment came in quite scrupulously for the first few months. Then he was gone.

No cause for concern, really.

Nott had drifted away over the years, as had Gregory and a great many others. Things like that happened. It took effort to keep friends. It took _more_ effort to keep _his_ friends, those cute little bastards with poor judgment and sick sense of humor who made it a habit of going in and out of Azkaban for hate crimes.

The last time Nott landed himself in Azkaban for some racist killing spree―a year ago, if his memory served him right―Draco had been swamped with a horde of reporters for months at end. To be fair, it was his own doing, because no Slytherin would have shown the decency to attend all those funerals and memorial services. He did it anyway, and he still couldn't help feeling less cordial towards the idiot.

He did wonder, as he set out early in the morning with a map in hand, whether he would find Nott in whole or in pieces—namely, just his eyes. Whatever it was that got his knickers in a twist, it might have gotten him to gouge out his own eyes before he took off. Not a particularly gratifying notion, no.

He still took a vial with him, just in case. Burkes had offered him exactly fifty thousand Galleons for Nott's eyes. He had not asked why. Some things were better left unsaid.

The Tracker indicated Nott as a stationary marker on the map and directed him to the outskirts of London. Draco had to look twice to make sure he got it right. Brows furrowed, he tried to make sense of the avid muggle hater staying put in a muggle neighborhood doing Merlin knows what. It was a tad early for blood and gore. He ran his palm over his face and nibbled on his bottom lip, thinking.

A muggle in luridly colored trainers jogged past as he pushed the bell-button and he was momentarily distracted by the bright orange bobbing about in his wake. Muggles with their bizarre tastes in fashion, he mused absently. Apparently the muggle was thinking along the same lines, his face scrunched up in an ungracious manner as he eyed Draco's cloak.

Draco watched the jogger round the corner. He turned back to the door. It was already open and the woman was staring at him.

She looked as if she had just gotten out of the shower. Water was dripping slowly from the light brown curls plastered to her pale temple, droplets trickling down the sinewy neck and wetting the shoulders of her oversized sweatshirt. Her cheeks were faintly colored from the onrush of cooler air.

She studied him with tired eyes.

"Malfoy," she acknowledged finally.

The wand slipped from his fingers under his cloak, and he bit on his tongue mid-Confundo. It was not a muggle that stood in the doorway, but Hermione Granger, complete with the thick brows and the strained smile and the shadows under her drained eyes—still the mourner he saw at the funeral a year ago. She gave him a neutral look, with hardly any sign of surprise, as if old school friends paid unannounced visits on a regular basis.

* * *

2

Nott had always been an idiot. He had an unhealthy, almost obsessive hatred towards muggles, and he made sure everyone knew about it. Draco still recalled how the brunet tore off his clothes at the speed of light when a muggleborn happened to brush past him in the corridor. The spastic idiot actually binned his school robes every week. Madam Malkins had been greatly disappointed when Nott graduated Hogwarts; her school robe sales had never been the same.

So it was with a mixture of disgust and relief that Draco came to terms with her being there. Disgust, because he'd never been too fond of the things Nott proved himself to be capable of; relief, because apparently he'd gotten there before Nott started anything. Nott's hate crimes were messy, all bad taste, and Draco really could do better than to wake up the next morning with the Prophet giving him the most illustrious and gruesome details of Granger's death.

Then again, it was either Granger getting killed or Granger beating the shit out of Nott and sending his sorry ass straight into Wizengamot. Then he would have to bid farewell to his fifty thousand Galleons. Either way it was a good thing he started out early.

"What a... pleasant surprise," he drawled. "If it isn't _Hermione Granger_."

Granger said nothing. She glanced around, first the neighboring house where the jogger came from, then somewhere over Draco's shoulders, as if Draco had his people hiding in the mailbox or the next door porch. It was mildly amusing to see her on edge, and he gave her a harmless little smile.

"Has it been what―one year? You look... well you look like you could've done better." He'd remembered that things hadn't been too jovial the last time he saw her. She was probably still grieving―she certainly looked like she did. The usual lights in her eyes were out. These were mourner's eyes.

"How did you find this place?" she said finally. Her eyes darted over his shoulders again before giving him a wary stare.

"I have my means," he answered lightly. "I hate to break it to you, Granger, some men just have more resources than others, unlike―"

Alright, maybe he was pushing it too far.

He smiled again, this time a more political smile, and pretended he wasn't about to go on his usual remarks on redheads and their financial woes.

"I must say, it's a lovely neighborhood you've got here. The apparition point is rather far off but still, a nice little place."

He could see that the compliments weren't getting him anywhere. She still eyed him cagily like he'd come for an ambush. Well, the ambush part she might be right. But it was only for Nott, who Draco suspected was probably hiding somewhere in Granger's house, ready to strike.

In a sense he was actually doing her a favor. If only she knew.

"Cut the pleasantries, Malfoy. How did you find this place?"

Then she wouldn't be so resolutely guarded.

Draco brushed imaginary lint off his cloak in an aloof manner, his wand still drawn and pointed at her beneath the cloak. Granger's wand was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps a simple Stunner would do it. He knew nothing about muggle housing but he was rather certain he wouldn't be hexed for getting in uninvited.

She grimaced, eyes narrowed and staring pointedly at where he was hiding his wand. _Don't you dare_ , he could almost hear her say. Then she let out a small sound of recognition.

"You're here for Theodore Nott," she said quietly.

* * *

3

Even Lucius' pet peacock had a bigger house than hers.

Unceremoniously invited in, Draco did his best to look unfazed by the minimalist nature of Granger's humble abode―and Merlin forbid, she took the word humble to another level. All the walls were painted white, no ornate carvings, no stirring of magic and not a single portrait in sight. It was as primitive as a Neanderthal or a certain gamekeeper's hut, serving only the purpose of providing shelter, just four walls and a ceiling over their heads.

He could see the kitchen from where he sat in the parlor, and that alone was quite appalling, the idea that you could actually see the whole cooking process. Perhaps it was a muggle thing. Maybe muggle housewives regularly poisoned their husbands, and it became a fad to have their kitchen out in the open. He would never know. He'd never taken Muggle Studies at school.

"Tea?" offered Granger.

"As long as it's not spiked, yes, that'd be nice."

She missed the sarcasm. Draco ignored her mild look of disapproval and discreetly took in his surroundings, pausing at the staircase near the front door, then at the back door in the kitchen. He waited until Granger reached for the cupboard with her back to him, took a peek at his map and found that Nott was still staying put at Granger's place. Yet no sign of him anywhere.

Granger returned, wand out, a tea tray sailing along before it settled before him without so much as a clink. Smooth. It almost reminded him of house elves.

"Any problems?" she said coolly, as he examined his tea to keep himself from voicing out his thoughts.

Draco smiled demurely. Fifty thousand Galleons, he reminded himself. As much as he enjoyed her company and the look he'd get for his usual cheekiness, there was a time for everything. It wouldn't do to goad her when he had a deadbeat client on the loose and Granger in the know.

He sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving her impassive face. She sat her mug down on the table and waited―for what, he had no time to wonder.

The truth serum kicked in.

And the last thing he remembered was her hand, cold and too calloused for a witch, prying his hands free of his mug before reaching in for his map.

* * *

A/N: Story originally written out in Korean at ㅈㅇㄹ.


	2. Incoming (2/3)

A/N: This chapter was first written early in May and any resemblance to real life event is purely coincidental. RIP George Floyd.

* * *

4

_He's dead, Bella. Gone for good._

Draco came to with a start. Narcissa. His mother. Her soothing voice, then her piercing shriek as her mad sister attacked the five-year-old Draco. But he wasn't five years old anymore, he wasn't getting strangled by that crazy bitch because Narcissa had told her to move on, and he'd been through this nightmare a hundred times.

_You have a whole life ahead of you. Bella, oh Bella._

He gazed blankly at the ceiling, his head rolled back, gurgling faintly for breath. He could feel her cold fingers grazing the back of his neck―but Bellatrix was dead, he'd been to her funeral with his mother, had personally seen to it that her ghost never entered his premises.

Yet this wasn't the Malfoy Manor.

"―You alright?"

And the voice, cool and stiff as it was, did not curse him with unjustified loathing. There was even a faint trace of worry, and those cold fingers did not try to choke him but cradled his head to tilt it forward.

Draco found himself face to face with Granger. She was leaning in too close, her oversized sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder and giving him a glimpse inside. He half smiled at the generous view and was actually tempted to grab her shirt, maybe yank it down or towards him.

It was then he realized he was roped to a small wooden chair, hand and all, and was brought back to his senses.

"Are you alright?" Granger repeated.

No, he wasn't. Good thing he was tied up.

Draco cleared his throat and shook his head slightly to get a hold of himself. She still seemed to be waiting for an answer.

"Funny you should ask," he supplied humorlessly. "Am I alright after downing Veritaserum? Hm, let me think. Yes, I feel _fantastic_ , because I had a blast with the interrogation session I can't even remember, and oh, I love waking up tied to a chair."

"It wasn't Veritaserum," she said quietly, moving away to sit on the side of the bed. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. The truth potion," she paused, looked him in the eye and continued, "I guess it wasn't brewed properly. You fainted twice."

Draco stared, then chose not to comment. He'd just realized he was in her bedroom, possibly on the second floor because he could see the tree branches outside the window. It was a small room, neat but scarcely furnished. Books were stacked in the half-open closet, leaving little room for clothes. There was a small bed, a tall bedside lamp, and that was it. Nothing else. It was almost puritan-like, as though she was dead set on depriving herself of everything she could enjoy.

Nott was still nowhere to be seen.

Then again, he would've been deeply distressed had he found Nott in her bed, or his eyeballs on the bed, for that matter.

"So tell me, why am I tied up?" he asked, jerking his arms half for show, half to see if there was room for maneuver. Not so much as a budge.

She stared, looking slightly more gaunt than before, eyes wide with something of a fear, as though he'd somehow developed lethal amnesia and was about to drop dead on the spot.

"You don't remember?" she said slowly.

He scowled.

"If I did, I wouldn't ask, would I?"

His arms were tied behind him, but his legs were free. He moved slightly, found that he could lift the chair with him and smirked. If she'd thought he was above physical brawl, she was very much mistaken. He'd deliver a blow with his head, right underneath her chin. Knock her down and choke her out with his knee.

Her wand lay near the pillow, within her reach. That wouldn't do.

"Granger."

He tutted and presented her with his best sneer.

"Don't tell me you used powdered mistletoe berries."

She raised her head so quick he could almost hear her neck protesting.

"Go get your potions book and start reading from first year. Even Longbottom would know you need to use them as a whole, not powdered."

That was easy. Granger was on her feet in an instant, retrieving a worn-out book from the closet and coming back to sit further away from her wand.

She did brew it right. Powdered, that is. But the truth could wait.

He got to his feet, chair held fast behind him, and pounced, head first, knocking the wind out of her with a perfect uppercut. She fell on the bed and frantically reached for her wand, but he had seen to that. He gave her a sweet smile and climbed onto her, setting his knee on her neck, and pushed down. She thrashed her arms, kicked and flailed, her fingernails digging into his knee, trying to pry it off, but to no avail.

He liked the look in her eyes. This was the Granger he knew, wild and fierce.

"Let's see how long you can last," he drawled. "One, two, three..."

He didn't even have to count to ten. She was out at six.

Draco rolled over with a content sigh, reached out for her wand with his hands still tied behind the chair, and finally broke loose. He kicked the chair aside and rolled his shoulders. Granger let out a soft groan and started moving again.

" _Stupefy_ ," he sing-songed.

He watched the Stunner set a nice glow to her prone form and checked his watch. Noon already. Now that wasn't too bad for morning exercise.

He left the room, Summoning his wand as he kicked open the doors on the second floor. Still no sign of Nott anywhere, but he did Summon Nott's wand along with his own, and an unfamiliar third one. Draco examined the third wand with mild interest before throwing it aside.

By the time he reached the basement, he had already decided to retrieve just the eyes and leave Nott behind. With Granger spiking his tea, brewing illegal truth serums and taking him prisoner, he probably had good reasons to believe she'd chase him down if he took Nott out of her hands. He'd let her have him. No doubt the idiot did something to deserve all this.

The door gave way after three consecutive spells and opened with a creak and a distinct sob.

Bingo.

" _Lumos._ "

Shadows flitted at the burst of light, over the dust-laden furniture and cardboard boxes. Theodore Nott gave a muffled cry of relief and crawled towards him, or rather slid across the floor stiffly, his arms and ankles tightly bound together with rope. Tears welled up in his fifty-thousand-Galleon eyes.

"I've been looking all over for you, Theo."

Draco smirked as Nott groveled at his feet. It almost broke his heart to break the news.

"Sadly this isn't a rescue mission."

Nott blanched. He shot a desperate look at his wand protruding from Draco's pocket.

"We had a talk when we put that Tracker on you, remember?"

The brunet's face went from livid to helpless, then back to pure anger.

"If you ever make it out of here alive, go to Borgin and Burkes for your eyes. I expect you might need more than fifty thousand at that point, but who knows?"

Draco held out the vial, pointed his wand at Nott and closed his own eyes. It wouldn't be an enjoyable sight.

"Sorry this had to happen, my dear friend," he said lightly.

He cast the spell and waited until the vial became heavier and closed with a wet sound. Then he kicked free of Nott's thrashing body and left the basement.

The door closed behind him, cutting off the stifled screaming with a resonant snap. Draco rolled the vial in his hand and grimaced as Theodore's bloody eyeballs got stuck on one side. He pocketed it with a sigh and made his way up the stairs, his steps rather unsteady as he massaged his temple. He was slightly nauseated. Not from what he'd just done, no, he'd had to use coercion on countless occasions and he'd seen worse. Perhaps Granger was right about that improperly brewed potion thing. He made a mental note to get an antidote before heading to Borgin and Burkes.

Draco barely made it to the front door. He stretched out his hand for the door handle, swore faintly under his breath and toppled to the floor.


	3. Incoming (3/3)

5

Draco woke once, maybe twice, drifting in and out of consciousness, each fainting phase followed by hypnopompic hallucinations. Sometimes he saw Bellatrix looming over him, shouting at Narcissa― _"DEAD? DEAD? THE DARK LORD HAS DEFIED DEATH!"_ ―and sometimes Granger took her place, feeling his forehead, prying his mouth open and forcing a bezoar down his throat.

Then it was over. He woke with a massive fur ball snuggled up against his neck, rumbling softly with content, and felt a soft bag of warmth that was unmistakably its belly. It might have felt good if he wasn't threatened by its sheer weight.

"Shoo," he said hoarsely.

The rumbling stopped, followed by a reproachful flick of its tail. The cat shifted its weight and Draco turned his head just before it tried to suffocate him with his butt.

Then he saw it―his wrist, tethered to the bedpost with an innocuous-looking sash belt. He let out an incredulous laugh.

Granger entered the room. She froze at the sight of her cat lounging within his reach.

"Crooks, come here."

The cat ignored her. Likely as not, it never got to see anyone with his looks, let alone strapped to the bed―unless Ron Weasley or Viktor Krum had a secret kinky side, but he'd rather not entertain the thought.

Then again, if they did Granger would have learned to bind both his wrists. His other wrist was free, and he raised it to give a cold-blooded poke at the cat's sizable butt. He got an irritable hiss for that, but it did its job and relieved him of the cat's suffocating weight.

"You're awake," said Granger, scratching the cat under its chin before shutting it out of the room.

He had to hand it to her, for someone who'd been knocked unconscious she looked remarkably unscathed, and somehow that reminded him of how she'd almost broken his nose back at Hogwarts. He pointed at his chin and feigned disappointment.

"Not so much as a bruise?" Draco cooed shamelessly. "Perfectly accustomed to muggle brawl, aren't you?"

She let it pass with an almost imperceptible sigh. "You won't be fainting again," she told him monotonously, slumping onto the floor by the door. She closed her eyes and began massaging the bridge of her nose. "I gave you an antidote while you were asleep."

"Glad to know you didn't botch it up this time," he commented snidely.

She let it pass again.

He lost interest at that. The sun had already set, the last streaks of red still visible through the windows, and he'd prefer that get-togethers with schoolmates not last more than one day. Unless, of course, he was getting laid, but he had a feeling his chances weren't exactly good.

"Granger," he began absently, tugging at the sash and pausing as he tried to make out the faint buzz of magic. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but this" ―he wriggled his eyebrows and held up his tethered wrist― "kinky side of yours could land you in prison for up to ten years. Non con isn't everyone's cup of tea, wouldn't you agree?"

"Don't get any ideas―" she muttered darkly, but he cut in with glee.

"Although _I'm_ more than willing to join you in whatever outrageous deeds you have on your kink bucket list, you see, I'm running short of time."

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out the vial for shock value. The Anti-Decay charm seemed to be wearing off, and he cringed slightly at the smell. His fifty thousand Galleons might have just dwindled to forty.

Granger did not so much as blink. Right, so the shocker didn't work either. She'd probably searched his pockets when he was out.

"You smell that? I really need to get going and have this delivered by midnight. Unless, of course, you're willing to run some errands on my behalf?"

He knew she wouldn't comply. It was one thing to lock people up and poison them―albeit unintentionally―with badly brewed potions, but quite another to partake in crimes that involved body mutilation.

And to his surprise, she readily took up the task.

"Throw it this way, then. I'll send it over by owl post."

He stilled, more impressed than taken aback.

"That won't do. Do you have any idea how much this is worth?"

"Then roll it over."

"Why don't you just come over here instead," he said sweetly. " _I won't bite_."

"I'd rather not risk it."

A wise decision on her part. The sash binding his wrist was long enough to strangle her if she came near.

He'd just have to talk his way out.

"Look," he said with a sigh. "I really don't give a shit about Nott, alright? You can lock him up forever, feed him to the rats, do whatever it is that you've got to do, I really don't care. If you're trying to keep my mouth shut, just save me the misery and Obliviate me, and we can go our separate ways."

Her jaw seemed to harden at his offer.

"I can't do that," she spoke quietly. "I'm sorry."

He stared at her in disbelief.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said testily. "You lock people up and feed them poison but you can't bring yourself to cast a simple Memory Charm? What are you, nuts?"

Draco rose up from the bed and paced the floor, the sash belt rustling at each turn. It grated on his nerves.

"I'm sorry," she repeated tonelessly. "You won't have to wait long. I'll let you go when Harry comes―"

He stopped in his tracks.

" _Harry-fucking-Potter_ ," he muttered slowly. Then he gave a morose little laugh. "All this for Potter, was it?"

Now it made sense. It was what Granger had been doing all her life―kissing his ass, tending to his every need, a loyal sidekick begging to be put to use. No doubt Nott's criminal deeds caught Potter's eye, so let's capture Nott and lock him up until Potter comes to save the day! What, there's a witness? Lock him up as well, lest he stand in the way of Potter the Great Auror and his Great Auror job!

It amazed him, the way she'd go to any lengths to fulfill Potter's ambitions. It was almost tragic to behold. What did all that ass-kissing get her? Nothing. She was stuck in this poor excuse for a house in a little neighborhood surrounded by nasty goggling muggles, with only Nott for company and waiting like a good little dog until Potter came along to pet her on the head, and he'd be off again, getting into Ginny Weasley's pants instead of hers.

Pathetic.

Somehow her stupidity annoyed him more than anything. She was sitting there, looking tired and forlorn, slumped against the wall like some abandoned animal, and he was sorely tempted to throttle her until she was brought back to her senses. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to control his breathing.

"Granger," he said darkly, shaking his head with barely contained exasperation. "Granger, Granger. You realize how pathetic you are? You think Potter will ever pay you back the way you wanted? Look at you, look what you've got for risking your neck in front of You-Know-Who while that _Weasley girl_ hid in the back. It's high time you stopped kissing his ass for nothing."

"I don't know what gave you that impression," said Granger coldly, "but I've never thought of Harry that way, and neither has Harry. And don't talk about Ginny like that. She's risked her life like everyone else, like you did."

She drew out a wand and ran her hand over it, a soft caress as if it were its owner.

"This isn't about Harry either."

Draco recognized it as the third one he'd Summoned earlier that day.

"It's just...Ron."

She paused. Something flitted in her eyes as the wand reacted to her touch with errant sparks of light.

"I thought you knew how he died."

He didn't.

He had been to Weasley's funeral, he remembered how that impassive Potter sobbed like he'd just lost his parents, how cold her hands had been when Granger grasped his hands and thanked him for coming, but he couldn't recall exactly how Weasley had died. Back then hate crimes and homicides had been at an all time high, aurors were getting killed every day and he had been attending so many funerals and memorial services it wasn't easy to keep track of everything.

Was it Nott that killed Weasley?

Granger continued, her voice straining slightly despite the firm gaze she sent his way. "I haven't heard from Harry since the funeral. No one did, not even Ginny. He doesn't respond to any of our letters. He's been gone like that for a year now."

She cleared her throat.

"I just want to give him a chance. He'll come if I tell him I have Nott in the basement. I need him here," she said plaintively, running her hand over her face, "because I can't do this on my own. I can't forgive Nott for what he's done, I can't just hand him over to the Ministry, but I can't kill him either. I just can't. There's nothing I can do on my own."

Granger looked at him, helpless and small, her brown eyes almost imploring him to give guidance.

But there was nothing he could do.


	4. Everyone's Got a Plan Until―(1/3)

1

He had to be honest. He was rather enjoying himself.

It wasn't every day you got to snag a first row seat to Granger's self-destructive antics. She had quit her job at the Ministry, quit her bibliophilic pursuit, quit pretty much everything he imagined was the norm for her, like spouting nonsense about house elf rights and other eccentricities of muggle origins. He found some regularity in the things that she did do; she spent the morning in the basement, probably watching Nott grovel in misery; she spent the weekday evenings smoking in the backyard; and the time in between, she sat slumped by the bedroom door and watched Draco, or rather let her vacant eyes linger on him simply because he was there.

The backyard was fully visible from the bedroom window. He couldn't tell if the window was under Anti-Detection Charm, and he spent the first few days giving the finger at the next door muggle. Then he began Granger-watching. She'd sit there, alone in the backyard, smoking nonstop, bathed in the red and orange glow of sunset. He learned that red looked good on her, with her brown hair tinged with fiery red. Typical Gryffindor.

Her little smoke sessions always ended with the next door muggle parking his car. Then she would stub out her cigarette in the ashtray, head out with her shoulders slumped and with a distinct air of defeat. The muggle couple next door were rarely happy with the obsessive way she greeted them, nor did they seem convinced at her lousy efforts to feign coincidence. In fact they were visibly wary, their eyes never leaving Granger as though she'd jump them the moment they showed their back.

She knew Draco watched her. She would return to find Draco still perched on the window ledge, elbow on knee, chin in hand.

She said nothing. Just gave him a neutral look with those dead eyes.

And he thoroughly enjoyed it, the silence, Granger shutting down like a muggle contraption going out of power, the slight tension as he scrutinized her every movement with bland curiosity. The Granger he remembered from Hogwarts was full of energy, always preoccupied, always doing something. Now she was anything but.

It wasn't entirely bad.

Granger. That loud, obnoxious, violent and egocentric brat he knew from school. So stuck up, so full of herself, so insufferable. He'd hated her, really, hated the way she sped past like a race horse wearing blinkers, hated the vibrant laughter that carried down the hall. Hated that undergroomed bushy mane, so at odds with her shirt, fastidiously buttoned all the way up to the neck.

And as the saying goes, everything's relative. He compared the Granger he knew to the Granger he saw now, and he was reminded of how Pansy told him to let his hair down once in a while. You spend a week with that stupid hair gel of yours, she advised, and one day with your hair down―that's the day. The beginning of _something_. It's those little changes that start relationships.

She was right. It was indeed the beginning of something. The beginning of something _less_ than relationship, but still. He recalled how he'd wanted to grab her primly buttoned-up collar and rip the damn thing open, even recalled those silly schoolboy thoughts he'd entertained during potions class―of grabbing her bushy hair, yanking her across the desk, sending cauldrons flying, and jamming her know-it-all mouth into his crotch―slamming into her until all he could hear was her gagging and whimpering.

The beginning of lust, maybe.

He liked the despair and the way she coped with it. He liked to watch her, the mouth that no longer laughed, the dull brown of her nearly lifeless eyes, the chapped lips that sometimes shuddered with grief. He liked the way her shirt would always slip slightly on the left side. He liked how she carelessly let her short pants ride up when she sat down, exposing untanned skin.

He liked his stay. It was the only reason he didn't attack her when he had a chance, which came quite often. She had lengthened the sash belt so he could use the bathroom, and he could easily have shattered the mirror with the floor lamp, grabbed a shard and took his stand, but he didn't.

Two weeks, Granger estimated, before Potter's return. She'd sent off thirty owls in thirty directions.

Two weeks would be enough. Draco decided to spend his summer holidays here, with Granger for company. Nott's eyeballs were delivered in timely manner, some urgent paperwork also dealt with via owl post, and he let himself off for two weeks.

It wouldn't do to while away the time with no plan. Last Christmas he went hunting and blasted 50 wild peacocks in honor of his father's pet peacock. Last summer he spent the holidays attending nearly all funerals and memorial services as part of PR effort.

This summer he'd get into her pants.

Two weeks would be enough. Two weeks, and he'd lay her underneath him, kiss those lean fingers smudged with cigarette ash, caress her grief-stricken face, her shoulders, down her breasts and up the untanned skin underneath her pants. Then he'd fuck her silly, drive out all her thoughts of Nott and Weasley, give her what she needed and the best she could have ever had, until she desperately hugged his neck and cried into his ear.

Draco was convinced he'd make it. He'd never been turned down by anyone, not with his looks, and he was sure he'd rival anyone she knew, again, with his looks.

Then Granger told him, on the third day, that Gilderoy Lockhart took up her request to modify Draco's memory in her stead.

* * *

2

To say that he wasn't exactly fond of their neighbor would be an understatement. Wendell had developed such a hearty aversion to the lady next door that he even rescheduled his daily jog for early morning (goes to show that people do change).

 _She's never out in the morning,_ Wendell observed with the merest hint of desperation. _Might as well make the best of it._

Monica couldn't blame him. Their neighbor had been stalking them from day one, brandishing a wooden stick at them and constantly muttering under her breath. Wendell had called in the police twice, and that had been quite the wrong move, because she then opted to hide herself so ingeniously that they could only hear her sobbing nearby. That ticked him off even more.

"I swear, I can even hear her sobbing in the middle of the night. _Like she's in our bedroom_ ," he muttered, shuddering despite himself.

Monica heard it as well. She might have even heard it during work, though Timothy at the front desk never recalled seeing any sobbing brunette near the reception area.

And yet, while she fully shared Wendell's discomfort at being tagged along at every move―she almost screamed when she found Ms. Granger standing right behind the fence while she was watering her garden―Monica still could not relate to her husband's outright antagonism. The poor thing was left alone, with no family or friend ever looking in on her, no one to get her symptoms checked. Had she not been such a determined stalker Monica might have taken it on herself to get a hold of a mental health liaison officer ASAP.

For the moment Monica had yet to overcome her fear of goading their neighbor into a blatant attack.

Anyhow, there was something about her that had Monica feeling weird, like how the slight cringe she sported before crying disturbingly resembled Wendell's (when he was feeling particularly cranky, which meant pretty much everyday thanks to their neighbor), or how Ms. Granger's unruly brown hair rather reminded Monica of her own, before her new hairdresser introduced her to the world of elasticizers.

So when Wendell came back from his morning jog and told her he'd seen a nutty bloke―cloak and all―standing absently at their neighbor's porch without ringing the bell, Monica found herself glancing at the kitchen window every five minutes, checking for any sign of incriminating behavior next door. It just didn't bode well, a mentally unstable young woman, alone and probably incapable of defending herself, entertaining a suspicious guest who could easily be a sexual opportunist in disguise.

Then she saw it. A chair flying through air, followed by a burst of red light. A tall blond at the window on the second floor, hand raised as if to strike out, then lunging out of sight.

"Wendell," she called out, eyes on their neighbor's window, panic starting to escalate as she squinted and tried to make out what was going on. No answer from Wendell, but she did not wait for one anyway―she was already out the door, cursing under her breath as her feet slipped against the doormat, when it came to her that Wendell was out running errands and her cellphone was still in the kitchen. She tried to talk sense into herself as her feet nonetheless took her to the neighboring porch, telling herself that she was being ridiculous, she should probably go back and just call the police, there was no need to start pounding on their neighbor's front door like she needed to summon the entire neighborhood―but she was doing it anyway―no reason to feel this anxious and no chance of taking down a young man twice her size―if he was indeed attacking the poor girl, and Monica dearly hoped he wasn't, because if he was she should have brought her trusty old aluminum bat with her―and her heart plummeted when the door gave way at her relentless pounding, creaking open to show―.

She stopped breathing.

There he was, the blond assailant, sprawled on the floor just inches from the front door, face down, quiet and still.

Where was Ms. Granger?

Monica headed for the stairs.

The bedroom door was open.

And she could hear the familiar sobbing again.

Only it was different now, more painful, more of a weeping despair, not the kind of suppressed sorrow she'd always shown the Wilkins. The poor girl was crying like it was the last thing she'd do, as if she were trying to let out all her grief before she ended her own misery.

In between the sobs, Monica could make out the words _Ron, it's over, Nott's gone, Harry, mum, I can't take this anymore_.

Monica entered the room. Grief was contagious, or perhaps it was just dread―it was downright frightful to witness someone coming apart―to see _her_ coming apart. Almost inexplicably so. It was more than sympathy. It was―she did not know what it was, but it was there, and she instinctively knew something was missing.

The brunette sat on the side of the bed, clutching her arms with her hands, her head bent down and shaking with each sob. Then she saw Monica's feet.

Monica stared wordlessly as her tear stricken face. She took a step forward, tried to speak, wanted to ask if she was okay, had the man downstairs done something to her, did she need help, why was she crying―wanted to tell her that she wasn't alone, she never was.

But she couldn't say anything. Her throat closed tight and she couldn't find the right words.

Ms. Granger started hiccuping, the tears still ran down her face, and she let out a distinct sob, " _Mum._ "

Then Monica knew.

Without any memory of their shared past, without even knowing the girl's first name, the mother knew, like an instinct, that she was her child.

Sometimes it took more than just magic to bring them back together.


	5. Everyone's Got a Plan Until―(2/3)

3

Hermione Granger spent her twenties smothered in despair.

The friends she'd lost to the war, she couldn't count on both hands.

Her parents, still Monica and Wendell Wilkins, never got their memories restored.

Then there was Ron.

Ron, the love of her life, a hero for so many, a brave Auror as they all knew him. Yet Hermione knew there was always that boy inside, afraid of spiders and afraid of death, and she felt a small part of herself die when she imagined what it must've been like for him, in his last moment of life, alone and no one to hold him.

Ron died in the line of duty.

Gave his life for the 129 muggle hostages of the hijacked airplane. Even then he couldn't save them. They searched the scene for a week, and returned with Ron's severed right hand still clutching his wand, a leg, the orange Chudly Cannons shoe Hermione had given him for his last birthday, and a happy Theodore Nott, sporting only a cut over his brow.

Ginny joined the search. No one could stop her, and she was the one who found Ron's wand. She lost her baby in the process.

Harry lasted a month. A month, during which he sat hard-eyed and silent at Ginny's bedside in St. Mungo's. Then he simply walked out of their lives.

Ginny still wrote to Hermione from time to time. She was strong, took it all in a stride, and she did what she had to: find Harry.

Molly was the same. As strong as she had been when she'd lost her brothers Gideon and Fabian, then her son Fred, she hugged Hermione and told her that Ron's a hero, he didn't die in vain, it will be alright, everything will be alright.

It was not alright.

The Weasleys were invincible souls. Hermione was anything but.

She never visited the Burrow again. She could not breathe there, couldn't keep her eyes open and see the places where Ron had sat and Ron had laughed and Ron had spilled the tea and Ron had kissed her. Ron was the Burrow. And he was never coming back.

She almost Splinched herself as she Disapparated her way home, vomited on her porch, barely made it to the toilet and wept until she could throw up no more.

Lover, friends, and the Weasleys. There was nothing left in her life without them, save for her parents, who desperately avoided her when they could, called the police when she came too near and clearly took her as a terrible case of psychosis.

She sometimes thought that they could be right. Sometimes her mind was racing, frantically going over the peaceful and clean ways to end her life. She even found herself downing the Draught of Living Death she had brewed in a half-trance. She lived. It would be the first of the countless potions she had failed to brew.

It wasn't just the potions. Her mind went completely blank in front of her parents, and all she could do was mumble _Finite, Finite, Finite_ , vain incantations that did nothing to bring back their memories, but still earned her their testy, disapproving looks and several run-ins with the muggle police. No wonder they didn't recognize her. Gone was the little girl who'd proudly shown her parents the magic she'd learned from school. She was a wreck. An incapable mess.

Then Draco Malfoy nonchalantly strolled into her life.

* * *

4

Longbottom's toad was a philosopher in action. It was almost an annual thing, that damn croaker―Traverse or something, Draco really couldn't be bothered to remember but he had a feeling it lived up to its name―seeking freedom like some 18th century revolutionary and Longbottom running after him on the Hogwarts train.

The toad once decided to take refuge in their compartment, near Vincent's sizable butt. Pansy, who had been quite busy snogging Vincent in those days―evidently she'd found a good use for his equally sizable front part and did not hesitate to demonstrate how, which often ended with Gregory yelling at them to fucking get a room―almost squashed the toad mid-snog and gave a fascinating scream when the toad retaliated with a flick of its tongue. Vincent came to the rescue and threw it out of the compartment. The toad hurtled through the air and landed flat on none other than Longbottom himself, who had just been passing their compartment in his endless search for the damn thing.

Longbottom smiled through his tears and actually thanked them for finding the toad―twice. Draco had not been pleased. He Summoned the toad and sent it flying through the air again, all the way down to the end of the train. That promptly sent Longbottom away, and Draco, feeling rather sick from getting a thank you from a Gryffindor, tried to aim a follow-up hex to make himself feel better.

Then Granger came out of nowhere and punched him.

He still remembered the look on her face as he lay sprawled on the floor. That insufferable, _knowing_ look. Like she somehow knew why he couldn't stand the sight of Longbottom standing there, thanking them over and over again.

And now, he felt that he could've done better with that look again.

Granger thanked him. Countless times. And it felt terrible. He felt like he could suffocate with that sheer, raw, heartfelt gratitude of hers because she was smiling at him, much like how Longbottom had done that day on the train, but it was much worse. He could almost see _something_ in her eyes, and he stilled, holding his breath as he tried to recover his poise. Her uncontrollable mane caught the light, a tinge of warm gold in a mess of brown. It was easier on the eyes. He could glare at it all day.

There was nothing to thank him for.

It was only a coincidence that the next door muggle saw him on Granger's porch. Nothing but dumb luck that the muggle saw him attacking Granger through the window. Pure chance that she got to explain everything to her mother. Yet she was thanking him like he'd been the mastermind behind it all.

"They agreed to meet with Gilderoy Lockhart," she told him, incapacitating him with that nonsensical gratitude again, with a warm smile that did nothing to assuage his discomfort. "He'll be coming over by the end of the week."

Then she made her offer: he would be free to go, after Lockhart tended to him with the Memory Charm that she'd been unable to cast for so long.

* * *

5

Gilderoy Lockhart's Memory Services thrived on the griever's misery.

Draco had seen his work. _The Savior of the Bereaved,_ The Prophet dubbed Lockhart when he made the front page time and again, but Draco knew better. Lockhart destroyed families with his thing. Mrs. Crabbe used Lockhart's Services 24/7, an addict as Mr. Crabbe bitterly called her, lying in bed and smiling as she lived out a fake life in a dream world where Vincent still lived.

There was no shortage of customers. You-Know-Who had left behind a legacy of hate crimes, creating a never-ending source of grief and loss. They called in Lockhart from everywhere, mothers who wished to see their dead child alive and grown-up, orphans who wanted to spend a day with their dead parents, lovers who wished a last night of passion with the deceased. Yet there would be no such thing as a last. People repeatedly called for Lockhart to relive his patented near-authentic dreams.

The man had a genius for Memory Charms, or so Granger told him, but Draco knew better than to take up the offer. Granger was still optimistic. She was actually glowing with hope as she welcomed Lockhart into her parents' home.

Draco watched them from the window. Lockhart was as vain as ever, dressed up in a tasteless pair of dragon hide pants and a conspicuous, hideously red cloak, flashing his too-white teeth and throwing back his wavy blond hair so frequently that the next door muggle―Granger's father―actually shot him a wary look and held back to whisper something in Granger's ear. She seemed greatly taken aback at his approach, and Draco marveled at the glimpse of vulnerability as she wiped at her eyes before closing the door.

It didn't take long for Lockhart to show that he was as useless as ever. The idiot was still convinced that he could do it. It just wasn't the right day, he was a tad under the weather, he'd come back tomorrow, no extra charges―a series of unpersuasive excuses that Granger nonetheless held onto with an air of desperation.

Draco took hold of Granger's Potions book and began filling out a piece of parchment while Lockhart came and left in vain for three days. Potions had always been his forte, but he somehow managed to amaze himself even further with his brilliance. Perhaps it all came down to motive, he thought to himself as he pushed Crookshanks off his lap for what seemed like a hundredth time. Neither Snape nor Slughorn had been particularly fascinating the way Granger was proving to be.

He waited until Lockhart threw in the towel and Granger showed up with those dead eyes again. She slumped to the floor, knees up, leaning heavily against the wall and staring vacantly at the floor, almost impervious to her cat nuzzling against her palm. He rather preferred her that way. That grateful Granger had been quite out of his comfort zone.

He laid down on the floor the parchment he'd been working on. A list of potion recipes, all twelve of them for the purpose of restoring lost memory. He pushed the parchment across the floor with his foot.

Then he proceeded to hold off her gratitude. An eye for an eye. A deliberate goad to keep it clean and simple.

"How about a bet, Granger?" he drawled, waggling a brow as her gaze fell on the parchment, then on his face. "I do wonder if you're desperate enough to take risks."

He gave her some time to marvel at his ingenuity as she read it through over and over again, her fingers slipping slightly with disbelief and hope. It didn't matter that the potions weren't tested. He knew she'd take the risk. She might take it apart, maybe test it on herself to see that no harm was done, but in the end she'd brew his potions one by one and get her parents to take them.

Granger opened her mouth to speak. He cut her off with a cool smile.

"A good fuck on this bed, if those potions work. What do you say?"


End file.
